


whisper in my ear

by juniordreamer



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Consensual, Dirty Talk, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Professor Ben Solo, Teacher-Student Relationship, Voyeurism, ben solo is a liar, but can we really blame him, it's there if you squint, the author regrets both everything and nothing, the mildest of plots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-06-29 18:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15735078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniordreamer/pseuds/juniordreamer
Summary: Kylo Ren is a late night audio erotic podcaster with a voice that brings Rey, quite literally, to her knees.  Ben Solo is the hard ass professor of gothic literature at Chandrila University that stands between Rey and her looming graduation.  Two men—a stranger and an academic—and a voice that Rey swears she’s heard before, echoed up from the middle of a podium and whispered in her ear in the middle of the night.  Is it possible that they’re one in the same?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I don't know what this is or where it came from (I've literally never written smut before), but I hope you enjoy it!!

There’s a voice in Rey’s head, whispered across space and time and frequencies of sound to settle in the headphones cradled softly around her ears.    

It’s a strange voice, a dark voice.  A voice that’s been manipulated to sound hushed and mechanical, as if the lips through which the words come whispered have been shielded by a mask. 

The voice tells her terrible things.  Filthy things.  Things she is only ever brave enough to do in the total darkness of her tiny bedroom, when the rest of the world has gone away with the rising of the moon in the night sky.

“Get on your knees,” it rumbles, “and spread your legs.  Let me see that perfect cunt.”

She does as she is told, moving slowly to avoid the creakiest parts of the old campus housing mattress, all coiled spring and worn cushion.  After all, Rose is just on the other side of the dorm’s paper thin wall and she’s a notoriously light sleeper.

The voice waits patiently for her to get into position, as if he knows she has to go slow, as if he’s watching her.  And when Rey spreads her legs and bares herself to the cool night air, she pretends that he is.

“There it is,” the voice says in wonder.  “Look at you, so wet, so _good_ for me.  Reach down and feel for yourself.”

Rey steadies herself with one hand gripped tight around the wrought iron bars at the top of the bed.  And with the other, she does exactly what he’s asked her to.  She reaches down between her legs and slides a finger through her folds.

The voice was right.  She is deliciously wet.  And open.  And empty, desperate to be filled.  But she waits for him to tell her what to do next.  Because she’s supposed to.  Because she wants to be _good_.

Seconds tick by.  A minute.  Two.  Silence broken only by her labored breathing and his, even and soft in her head.

He makes her wait like the cruel faceless god that he is and she aches for it, her legs shaking with the effort it takes to stop from touching herself again, from plunging her fingers deep inside where she so desperately needs them to be.

She grips the headboard until her knuckles shine white in the darkness and she dips her head down to the pillows beneath her, whispering her weakness where she knows it can’t be heard.

“Please,” she keens, the word desperate and ragged on her lips. 

The voice laughs, cruel and dark and it infuriates her, that he would leave her like this when she’s done everything he’s asked, when she’s been so _good_.

But then, just when she thinks she’ll go mad from the denial, he relents, his voice once again coming alive in her ears.  That’s all it takes for her to forgive him.  Just as she has before.  Just as she will again, a thousand times. 

“Spread those legs a little wider, sweetheart, I know you can,” he purrs.

She moves again, stretching herself wide until her dripping cunt brushes against the sheets beneath her and she has to swallow down a scream at how good the contact feels.

“Perfect, kitten,” he says, and the endearment sends a wave of heat down her spine.  “Now show me how you like to be touched.”

Rey nearly sobs her gratitude, moving her hand to circle the tight little nub at the top of her flesh.  She goes slow, so achingly slow, like she knows he wants, and it’s so good already that she has to press her lips against her arm to stifle the low moan that rattles out from her throat.

Her fingers slide through her wetness, making filthy sounds that she pretends he can hear, this man who brings her shaking to her knees with only the purr of his voice.  

She could come just from this, just from the slow slip of her fingers on her skin, but she knows she’s not supposed to.  Not yet.  Not until—

“Dip into that pretty pussy now, sweetheart.  Just once, just to feel how ready you are.”

She curls her hand between her legs, slipping two fingers inside.  It’s the most exquisite torture, the cruelest beauty, and she is tempted, so tempted to grind down on them again and again until she gets what she needs.   

But he speaks again, like he’s read her mind across the ether—stranger to stranger, an impossible connection—and so she takes them out, gasping at the sudden removal, determined to wait for just a bit longer. 

“Take those wet fingers and run them across your perfect tits,” he demands.  “I want to see them shine.”

His voice is warm and smooth and unrelenting, running over her like chocolate, soothing her aching knees and her furrowed brow until all she feels is the cool night air on her back and the drip down her thighs.  

It’s an impossible task, pulling her hands away from where she wants them the most.  But she does it for him, dragging her fingers across each nipple, already hardened from the recycled air that blows too cold through the room, leaving a trail of wetness that reflects off the light filtered in from the slatted blinds in her window.  

She’s so close to the edge, losing hold of her restraint, and she can’t quite stem the moan that falls from her lips when he whispers in her ear once more.

“You’ve been so good.” 

She arches into his words.

“And so patient.”

The walls of her cunt clench in anticipation.

“And you’re so close to the end, sweetheart.”

She nods to the empty walls of her bedroom, her chin dipping against the top of her chest.  Her entire body feels impossibly flushed, every muscle pulled tight with tension and ready for release. 

And even though she knows it isn’t possible, that the voice is nothing but a stranger whispering into the void, she feels as though he knows her.  And he knows her body.  Because just when she thinks she can’t stand to wait a second longer, his voice dips an octave lower and he tells her what she’s been waiting to hear.

“Push those fingers back inside of you and ride them until you come.”

It’s the sweetest relief, the feeling of being spread and filled, and though her hands are smaller than she’d like, she knows how to use them well.  She bounces and grinds and slides through her wetness until her legs shake and she falls forward on the bed to angle herself that much deeper. 

He’s in her ear through it all, whispering filthy words of encouragement that have her moving faster, hips slamming again and again against the bed.  He tells her how hard he is for the sounds her pussy makes, that he’d bend her over and drink her down if he could, that she’s good, _so good_.  And it’s a little like they’re the only two left alive in the universe—his voice and her hands, working in tandem until finally, finally she feels a familiar burn low in her belly.  A burn that grows and spreads and blazes until she is a dripping, quivering mess on the bed. 

This is the only moment that she allows herself to picture him.  Just a shape, barely a shadow, but tall and strong and solid.  His fingers are long and thick, his eyes dark and kind.  And when she comes, she imagines them locked onto hers, never blinking, not wanting to miss a single second of the way her body squeezes and shakes through the crest, wanting to take her for all she’s worth.

She rolls onto her back when it’s over, chest heaving and body slick with sweat.  There’s a moment of silence and then his voice appears once more through the headphones still cupped around her ears. 

She mouths along with the words this time, a lazy, contented smile on her lips.

“ _This has been Kylo Ren from the Darkside podcast.  Signing off until next time_.”

\- - -

There’s a knock on Rey’s door the next morning—loud and persistent and punctuated by Rose’s voice, far more cheery than it has any right of being at this hour. 

“Rey!-” _knock_ “You’re going-” _knock_ “to be-” _knock_ “late-” _knock_ “if you don’t get your ass out of bed!”

Rey groans and rolls over, searching blindly through a mess of sheets and blankets for her phone.  She finds it crammed between the bed and the wall, headphones still connected, and when she finally manages to pull it back out, her heart stops when she sees the time.

“Shit!” she cries, leaping from the bed and grabbing a towel from the back of the chair at her desk to wrap around her still naked body before throwing open the bedroom door and running into the common area.

She finds Rose leaning against the suite’s tiny kitchenette, a half drunk cup of coffee in her hand and an all too knowing smile on her face.

“Another late night?” she asks with a smirk.

Rey’s face goes as red as the mug in Rose’s hands and she barely manages a good-natured “Shut up” before she heads to their shared bathroom down the hall.

“I tried to wake you,” Rose insists, just a few steps behind her. 

“I know,” Rey calls over her shoulder as she gathers her hair in a high bun and twists the shower to life.

“You can’t be late to your lit class again.”

“I know.”  Rey jumps into the spray, steeling a shriek at the feel of the cold water on her exposed skin.

“You really should stop staying up so late.”

“I know, I know.  Pass me my face wash?”

“Here,” Rose says, tossing an orange bottle of facial cleanser over the plastic shower curtain.  “Professor Solo is a total hard ass, you know.”

“Yes, I _know_ ,” Rey says again, frantically rubbing soap over her body and flushing when she passes over the leftover stickiness between her thighs. 

“I still don’t understand why you’re taking that class.”

Rey rinses off the soap and turns off the water, finishing her shower in record time.  She huffs as she wraps a towel around her body and steps around Rose to grab her toothbrush from the sink.

“I told you,” she says around a mouthful of toothpaste.  “One of my gen ed’s didn’t transfer over from my old school so I have to do one over to graduate.”

“Yeah, but why Solo’s class?  You must have heard the rumors about the guy.”

She spits unceremoniously into the sink.  “It was the only one available.  Now be helpful and go find me something to wear.”

Rose grins and gives a little salute to Rey’s reflection in the mirror.  “I’m on it!”

\- - -

Nearly a mile extends between the row of dorms on the eastern end of the campus and the Anakin Skywalker Legacy building on the western end.  It’s a 20 minute stroll on days when she hasn’t overslept and an eight minute sprint on days when she has.

Today, Rey makes it in seven, skidding to a stop just outside the quickly closing doors of ENG 321. 

“Wait!” she calls, just barely managing to squeeze through the opening before it closes completely. 

“Thanks,” she says to the figure behind her, stopping in her tracks when she realizes it’s Professor Solo, looking perfectly polished and more than a little displeased at her harried arrival.

“Nice of you to join us, Miss Niima,” he whispers through pursed lips.    

Rey wipes a bead of sweat from the curve of her neck as she mutters a quiet apology and heads to the only open desk still available.  She groans inwardly when she realizes it’s at the very front of the class, impossibly far from her usual seat along the back row where it’s usually safe to get a head start on her engineering homework. 

Rey doesn’t understand what it is about this class that has her so unbalanced.  She’s always been a good student and she’s always had good relationships with her professors.  She managed a full course load and multiple part time jobs for two years at the local community college in her hometown and when she transferred to Chandrila University, she managed to maintain a perfect 4.0 even with dual majors.  But for some reason, she can’t seem to get her shit together for Professor Solo and his stupid gothic literature. 

Maybe it’s because she finds the subject matter so insufferably boring—because even when she tries her best to focus on what Professor Solo is saying, her mind drifts to other things.  Like how to apply the wave equation to the acoustics in the drafty auditorium across campus, or what excuse she’s going to use when Poe inevitably asks her out again, or what she’s going to do when she finally graduates at the end of the semester. 

It’s then that Professor Solo steps up to the podium, just a few feet from Rey’s seat.  He glances down at his notes once, shuffling them into a neat stack in his hands, and then he turns his attention to Rey.  She freezes under his gaze, her breaths still coming in ragged pants from her sprint across the campus, and though she is dressed in a loose fitting t-shirt and dark jeans, she suddenly feels as naked as she did on her bed the night before.

It’s strange and intense, his eyes on hers, and even though she doesn’t understand it, there’s something about his eyes that seems familiar and suddenly, Rey wants to know why.  But then the moment ends, nearly as soon as it began, and he moves on to scan the rest of the class before he clears his throat and begins his lecture—something about the duality of the gothic hero/villain. 

Rey does her best to play the part of the perfect student, dutifully referencing her textbook when told and jotting down notes about Prometheus and the satanic hero in the spiral notebook neatly positioned on her desk.  But it’s his _voice,_ so wonderfully low and deep, that has her losing her train of thought halfway through nearly each of her sentences.

She can’t understand how she’s never noticed it before.  The measured intensity, the even cadence that trips ahead into unrestrained passion when he loses himself in the rhythm of his words.  It’s beautiful and intoxicating, the way he stalks from one side of the room to the other, the way he moves his hands when he talks.  Large hands, Rey notes.  And long, thick fingers.

“The hero/villain is neither individual entity,” he instructs, his voice growing louder and more impassioned with each word.  “Rather, it is an amalgamation of concepts we typically view as dichotomous—good and bad, right and wrong, light and dark.”

He runs a hand through his hair, long and dark and curled just around the ears. 

“And in the end, it isn’t the character who decides where they should fall on the spectrum, but the _reader_.  What actions, what traits will you justify?  What sins will you forgive?”

It’s a good question, Rey is sure.  A thought provoking one that maybe a better student would spend time dissecting and considering.  But Rey is focused on the _voice_ —the velvety tone, the purposeful pauses, the way it dips up and down like fingertips brushing over naked skin. 

It’s a voice she swears she’s heard before, a thousand times—not just echoed up from the middle of a podium, but whispered in her ear on the darkest of nights.

But that can’t be possible.  Ben Solo, esteemed professor, double doctorate, grandson of the prolific author for which this very building is named can’t possibly be the same as Kylo Ren—a man that whispers filthy words into a microphone for total strangers to pleasure themselves to. 

_Can he?_

Professor Solo claps his hands together, marking the end of the lesson and causing Rey to nearly jump out of her skin.  She feels hot, her face and chest visibly flushed from her ridiculous thoughts and she moves to pack her things, suddenly desperate to get out of the classroom and away from the voice that is now echoing again and again in her head.

She’s halfway to the door when she hears her name called behind her. 

“Miss Niima!  A word?”

_Shit._  Rey freezes, mournfully watching as her fellow classmates find their freedom on the other side of the classroom door.  When the last of them are gone, she turns and finds Professor Solo leaning against his desk in the middle of the room.

He really is quite a large man, she notices errantly.  Tall and broad and surprisingly muscled for an academic.  Not entirely unlike…

She shakes her head and steels her spine and approaches him at the desk, a flood of words already moving across her tongue.  “I’m really sorry about this morning, Professor.  I overslept and I live all the way across campus and I swear it won’t happen agai—”

“—Hold on Miss Niima,” he interrupts.  “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh,” Rey says, suddenly feeling a bit stupid.  “What did you want to talk about then?”

He folds his arms across his chest and Rey tries very hard _not_ to notice the way his forearms bulge around his sleeves, which are rolled to sit just above the elbow.  She’s never seen him like this before—so calm and relaxed when he’s usually all intense, coiled energy.

“I know gothic literature isn’t exactly your favorite subject,” he says evenly.

“Oh,”  Rey stammers, tucking a stray piece of hair around her ear.  “That’s not, I mean it _isn’t_ , but I still—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts in again.  “It’s not an accusation.  I know the subject isn’t for everyone.”

“Yeah,” Rey flushes.  “Sorry.”

There’s a strange moment then where he just looks at her and she looks at him, tilting her neck to see into his eyes, which are a soft mix of brown and gold, and Rey doesn’t quite understand what this is or what’s happening.  But then he clears his throat and pulls a file from his desk and Rey takes a second to fill her lungs with air because she must have forgotten to breathe while his eyes were locked on hers.

“Anyway,” he begins again.  “I read your paper last night.  The one on gothic architecture and the influence it played on the literature of the time.”

“Oh,” Rey says, surprised again at this sudden turn in the conversation.  “Yes?”

“I thought it was, well, _good_.”

“Good?” she squeaks, flushing at the word and the memory of it being whispered in her ear as she came on her hand the night before.   

“Yes,” he clears his throat.  “ _Very good_ actually.”

Wetness pools between Rey’s thighs—a Pavlovian response, like her body’s been wired to respond to the praise.  And maybe it has, but it’s also the _voice_ saying the word, Professor Solo’s voice, that has her squeezing her thighs together in the middle of the brightly lit classroom.

“Right.  Good.  I’m glad you think it’s, well, good.”

Maybe she’s imagining it, but she swears she feels his eyes roam her body—fast and subtle, stopping once at her lips and again at the rosy flush spreading across her chest.  Then he stands, drawing himself up to his fullest height and bringing himself a bit closer to where she is rooted to the ground.

“ _Good_ ,” he finally whispers, soft and dark, the faintest of smirks pulling at the corner of his lips.

And if Rey wasn’t sure before whether Kylo Ren and Ben Solo could possibly be the same person, there is little doubt in her mind now.

Which means that it wasn’t a stranger telling her to get on her knees, to dip inside herself and ride her hand.  It wasn’t just an anonymous voice that called her kitten and sweetheart and made her beg for it in the quiet of her bedroom.

It was Ben Solo.  Ben _fucking_ Solo.  Professor, double doctorate, grandson of Anakin Skywalker, and _late night audio erotic podcaster._

And really, that should be the end of the conversation.  If Rey has any sense at all, and she usually does, she would turn around and walk out of the classroom, never whispering a word of this scandalous secret she has somehow come to know.  Not to Rose, not to Finn, and certainly not to the professor himself. 

But maybe it’s because she hasn’t been getting enough sleep lately or maybe it’s because she’s suddenly lost her mind or maybe it’s because her cunt keeps clenching down around nothing, but that _isn’t_ what Rey does.

Instead, she finds herself leaning a bit closer, closing what little distance is left between them.  Then she keens her neck to look into those eyes—eyes she has pictured countless times at the height of her orgasm.  And then she opens her mouth. 

“Thank you,” she says, barely above a whisper.  “ _Kylo_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not going to touch you.” 
> 
> She wants to ask why, beg for him to change his mind, but for once she bites her tongue. Because, really, she knows why. 
> 
> If he doesn’t touch her, then technically they’ve done nothing wrong. If he doesn’t touch her, then there’s nothing to report. If he doesn’t touch her, they’re safe. 
> 
> So she nods her assent, even though it makes her want to scream. Even though it’s the last thing in the world she wants to agree to. 
> 
> He won’t touch her. 
> 
> But then, what will he do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember that fic I wrote 8 months ago and promised I'd try to update? Well, here it is--this time, with even less plot than part one! ;) Thanks for your patience, I love you all.

“I’m not going to touch you.”

She wants to ask why, beg for him to change his mind, but for once she bites her tongue.  Because, really, she knows why.

If he doesn’t touch her, then technically they’ve done nothing wrong.  If he doesn’t touch her, then there’s nothing to report.  If he doesn’t touch her, they’re safe.

It doesn’t feel safe, though—the way he’s looking at her.  The way he’s _been_ looking at her ever since she lost her mind and said the name he thought no one knew and blew his world in two.

He’s been looking at her like that for weeks now.  Every time she breezes into the classroom just as he’s moving to close the door.  Every time his eyes wander up from the podium only to find hers already staring back at him.

He looks at her like he knows exactly what she does when it’s late and the world is quiet and there’s no one to soothe the cruel ache between her legs.  Like he knows how desperate she is.  Like he can smell it on her.

It’s a little like a game, the way they circle around each other.  Speaking only when spoken to, looking but never touching, dancing along the delicate line that separates what they want from what they know they shouldn’t have. 

Rey can’t quite tell if they’re winning or losing, but being here now in his office after hours, it feels a bit like winning. 

So she nods her assent, even though it makes her want to scream.  Even though it’s the last thing in the world she wants to agree to.

He won’t touch her.

But then, what will he do?

He looks so relaxed, leaning against the desk like that and Rey hates him a little for it.  Because she can’t seem to catch her racing heart.  It beats ahead of her, spiraling faster than she could ever hope to grasp.

The secret is in his hands, though.  The way his fingers clench down into fists, knuckles straining against the skin until they shine bold and white and Rey breathes a little easier knowing that he feels it too—this senseless urgency, this primal drive that’s been dancing in her veins ever since that day in the classroom so many weeks ago.

They tried to fight it.  Really, they did.  Rey was the picture of a perfect student—arriving for class every Tuesday and Thursday morning just as the minute hand ticked up toward the twelve and the hour settled on eight.  Never a minute earlier, never a minute later.  She took her usual place in the back row and sat upright and attentive, eyes following him as he stepped up to the podium to begin the day’s lecture.

As for him, well, he was nothing if not a consummate professional.  He lectured and debated and challenged his students the same way he always had.  And if their eyes happened to meet when she came through the door to his classroom, he greeted her with a nod and the occasional, “Hello, Miss Niima,” to which she always responded with flushed cheeks and a whispered, “Hello, Professor.”

What they _didn’t_ do was another matter entirely.  She didn’t picture his breath on her neck or his fingers dipping into her core or the scratch of his beard on her thighs.  Certainly not.  Just as he didn’t imagine her on her knees, shirt rucked up to reveal her perfect tiny breasts.  Or the way her slick must drip down her thighs or the way it might taste on his tongue.

Because that would be wrong.  That would be crossing a line they’ve worked hard to stay well on the other side of.

Still, they’re only human.  And after weeks of this torture, is it really any surprise that they should find themselves here, just on the edge and ready to fall?  

Rey’s chest rises as she breathes air into her lungs.  Steady, but too fast.  She wants him to say something, _do_ something, but he’s just staring at her, one finger pressed against his lips like he’s trying to solve a problem, a riddle with no answer. 

The air in his office is too cold and she shivers where she stands, synapses spitting like lightning.

Finally, after what feels like an impossible length of time, he stirs.  He stands and stalks toward her, reminding Rey of a wolf about to feast.

“Good,” he purrs.  “I’m glad we agree.”

Rey feels her back hit the wall behind her and suddenly she is caged by him, trapped by his scent—dark and delicious, like fresh coffee and chocolate.  She sees nothing but his eyes and his chest and his miles of broad muscle, tensing under his shirt.

He’s almost close enough to touch.  Almost close enough to reach out and feel beneath her hands.  But she remembers their agreement and fights to keep them dutifully by her side.   

“Tell me,” he says, head tilted in contemplation as he stares down at her.  “Are you wearing underwear under that skirt?”

Rey feels herself slicken at his question, color rising on her cheeks as she slowly nods her head up and down.

He almost smiles at her answer, lips tipping up into something like a smirk before he speaks again.

“Take them off.”

Rey draws in a breath, muscles clenching as she slips her fingers beneath her skirt and hooks her thumbs around the fabric she finds there.  He doesn’t take his eyes off her as she slides them down her legs before slipping them around her shoes.

They’re black, nearly sheer.  Not the most extravagant or the most expensive in the world, but he looks at them like they’re a prize to be won.  And when he snatches them from her hand before she can think to move, he grins like that’s exactly what he’s done.

Rey nearly chokes when he slides them into the pocket of his dark jeans, causing his grin to widen.

With her underwear gone, there’s nothing to contain the wetness that slides from her core and Rey can feel it on the inside of her thighs, warm and slick against her skin.

“What should we do with you now?”

Rey can only whimper in response.

“Maybe I should leave you like this.  Send you home, aching and empty for what you’ve been doing to me every time you come through the door of my classroom.  Is that what I should do?”

He folds his arms across his chest, eyes raking over every inch of her body.  He isn’t angry, not really anyway.  He’s just, untamed.  Hungry for control.  

“Answer me,” he demands, voice low as a growl in her ears.

“N-no,” she stutters.  She doesn’t know what to say, how to find words to describe what she wants from him.  She’s used to listening, following, submitting.  Speaking was never part of the equation.

“Please,” she manages to say, the word slipping from her like a sigh.

He considers her plea, seemingly satisfied by this singular word and the countless conclusions that could be tied to it because he smirks again, nodding to her chest. 

“Pull up your shirt.”

Rey freezes for half a second before doing as she’s been told, untucking her shirt and pulling it up so her naked breasts are exposed to the cool air.   

His eyes burn bright as he drinks her in—the flush on her chest, the rosy color of her nipples, already hardened to a stiff point. 

“Look at you,” he rumbles, tongue dipping out to run along his bottom lip.  “So good, doing what you’re told.  So perfect.”

The praise is enough to send another wave of wetness through her core and she leans against the wall, tilting her hips out so her chest is even more exposed to the room and the man standing in front of her.

“Run your hands over your nipples,” he demands.  “Pinch them.  Hard.”

It’s the sweetest relief, this sharp sting of pain she draws from her body with her own hands and it leaves her aching for more. 

“Please,” she begs, truly desperate now and no longer ashamed of the way she aches to be touched or the way her body is tuned to his voice, like it’s been made to do his bidding.

He isn’t done playing with her yet though and when he shakes his head from side to side she nearly sobs her frustration.

“What is it that you want, sweetheart?”

“I-I want…” she tries, but words fail her.  “Please.”

He tuts at her, but there’s no real malice in it.  Only dangerous desire, singular and focused.

“If you can’t tell me, then show me.”

Rey hums her gratitude, hand moving from her breast down her waist and under her skirt to slip her fingers against the heat coiled there.

She’s obscenely wet, fingers sliding over her clit almost too quickly, too easily and she presses down harder to keep them where she wants them.

A ragged moan is pulled from her throat as she moves in circles, hips rising and falling in tandem with the swipe of her fingers.

He stares at her through it all, a dangerous glint in his eyes that heats her skin and leaves her shaking.

“God, I can hear how wet you are,” he says softly.  “Is this what it’s like when you’re all alone, listening to my voice?”

“Yes,” she gasps.  “ _Yes_.” 

And it’s true.  There’s nothing that makes her feel the way he does.  Even before, when he was just a series of waves and vibrations travelling through space and time.  Before she discovered what he truly was. 

She swirls her fingers even faster, strangely emboldened by the admission, but something is missing.  She bites down on her bottom lip, eyes screwed tight with frustration as her cunt clenches down around nothing.

When she opens them again, her eyes are drawn toward the outline of his cock pressed hard against his jeans and she whines again, imagining what it might look like.  What it might taste like.

Somehow, she finds the boldness she couldn’t before and forces her wonder into words.

“Take it out,” she nearly begs.  “Please, I want you to.”

 This seems to surprise him, his eyes widening before he can temper his features back into the mask he’s so good at hiding behind.  When it’s firmly in place once more, he shakes his head.

“Why not?” Rey demands, unable to keep the whine from her voice.

“Because that’s not what this is, kitten.  This is about you.  Now be a good girl and push those pretty little fingers inside you.”

Rey forgets all about his strange denial of his own pleasure as she relents to his command, slipping her fingers inside herself with ease.

It’s so much closer to what she needs, but she still feels empty. 

She shakes her head frantically.  “It’s not enough.”

“Then use another finger.”

“Please,” she gasps.  “I can’t—I need more.  It isn’t enough, please.”

And she can’t help the words that spill from her mouth now.  Horrible mews and desperate moans that sound like _please_ and _more_ and before she can stop it, his name slips from her lips for the first time since they started this—whatever it is that they’re doing. 

“Please, please _Ben_.”

His eyes darken and he nearly growls when that name slips into the space between them.  Indecision wars on his face, drawing his brows down into a crease Rey wants to kiss and she realizes for the first time just how deep this thing might go if she allowed herself to think past the confines of this room or the brush of her fingers across her skin.

Suddenly, she’s afraid he’ll leave her like this, a soaking mess still so far from what she needs, and desperate tears spring to her eyes before she can swallow them back down. 

He hesitates for another moment, hands clenched tight into fists by his side, before he draws a breath into his chest and steps toward her.  Warmth spreads from his body to hers as he wrenches her hand away from her core, letting less than the span of a single breath pass before replacing it with his own.

 “Fuck,” he sighs, half choke half growl as his fingers slide through her heat, bumping her clit and making her muffle a cry in his shoulder. 

Then he’s slipping inside her.  First one finger and then another, both deliciously long and thick and Rey can only clench down around him, desperate and grateful and hungry for whatever he’s willing to give her.

His thumb finds her clit and Rey does her best to swallow her screams, closing her eyes tight against the world to keep from shouting out.

“No,” he chides, nipping at her breast.  “Open your eyes.  I want to watch you.”

She nods, eyes wide once more as he stares down at her.  Barely blinking, barely breathing as he brings her closer and closer to that beautiful ledge. 

“Dreamed of this,” she thinks she hears him say.  “Your cunt wrapped around me.  So good, so perfect.  Everything I want.  So fucking wet, so warm.  Wanna taste you, breathe you in.  _Fuck._ ”

His fingers stretch her in the most delicious way and all she can do is cling to the front of his shirt as he draws an ever growing wave of pleasure inside of her.

Her breasts sway with the force of his motions and he leans down to run his tongue across her skin, biting into her flesh as she cries out against him.

“You’re so close,” he murmurs against her ear.  “So good, so good for me.  Want to feel you come.  Please, let me feel you come.  _Rey._ ”

His words, and the sound of her name on his lips, narrow the world to a single point.  There’s only his breath, warm against her cheek, and his hands cradling her so she doesn’t slip down the wall, and his voice so sweet in her ear.  And maybe it’s a strange thought to have, but she feels safe trapped in his arms and it’s with that emotion pounding in her veins that she lets herself fall, without reservation and without fear.

He sees her through it, whispering praise in her ear and slowing his movements as she pulses around him, longer and more intense than she ever has before.  

She’s a sweaty, quivering mess once she finally comes down, pupils blown wide and pretty flush staining her face and chest.  His arms are still wrapped around her, holding her up against the wall, and she can feel his pulse beating wildly through his shirt.

She’s not sure what to say, if there’s even anything _to_ say, but he’s looking at her in a way that makes her feel more than naked.  Like she’s perfect.  Like she’s beautiful. 

He doesn’t let go of her until their hearts start to slow and the cold from the room starts to seep back into their bones.  His face is serious, hard to read, as he fixes her skirt around her hips and flips her shirt back down to cover her breasts. 

But then he kisses her.  Just once, just his lips pressed to hers.  Simple and chaste.  And when he pulls back, they’re both smiling. 

Rey doesn’t quite know how they got here, so far from where they started and even farther from what they agreed to, and she’d be lying if she said it didn’t scare her a little—the way he’s looking at her, the way she feels with his scent stamped into her skin, the prospect of what this could be.

But if Ben’s afraid, he doesn’t show it.  He just smiles at her—a real one, with teeth and all, as he runs a hand through his dark hair, eyes never leaving hers.

“Do you like coffee?”

Rey can’t help the giggle of surprise that escapes her lips at his question. 

“Yes,” she answers.  “I like coffee.”

He nods, face serious once more. 

“Good.”

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm one of the few still holding down the fort over on [tumblr](http://juniordreamer.tumblr.com), though you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/juniordreamer2) and discord as well. Come say hi!
> 
> If you happen to read my WIP (The Devil's Backbone), please know that fic is NOT abandoned. I have the next two chapters written, I just want to stockpile a few more before I start posting again. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [tumblr](http://juniordreamer.tumblr.com/)!


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